Sunday, November 23, 2014

My Life Amongst The Races

It would be too much to say that I have always been a great
friend to the races, but I hope that a casual observer would at least admit
that I have, on balance, done alright.
Okay. Something like that. Mediocre isn’t always a bad thing.

I do try my best to be reasonable about matters of race in
America. I do think about it, and I
always have. Sometimes it sneaks up on
me, like this time.

In my early 20’s I carried the mail in New York City’s
borough of Queens. It was hard work
then, most routes were carried in a bag on our shoulder. It probably still is hard, even with the little vans they use now. I was a substitute carrier, a sub, a
“floater,” meaning that I had no route of my own. My days started variously at five, six, seven
or eight o’clock, and they could really stretch out. I usually took out a route and a half, often
two entire routes. It could be a long
day.

Thinking about this the other day, I recalled one evening
when I punched out at about 6:30 after twelve hours of humping the boonies. The bus that I caught to go home was almost
empty. I took a seat near the back and
opened the window. The breeze was like a
tonic. Another young man got on the bus
and took the seat in the back, left corner, directly behind me. “It’s freezing in here,” he said, “shut that
window.” I had long hair at the time,
and maybe he had mistaken me for a peace loving hippie that could be pushed
around, willy-nilly.

Now you should know that I had grown up in a very tough part
of Queens. There was always a lot of
fighting, and we got hit by the nuns, and we got beaten by our parents too,
most of us. I was never one of the
really tough boys, nor was I particularly big or athletic, but I was in the mix
and I had learned the dance. One of the
rules was: never even appear to be
backing down from an even fight. No good
could come of it, and it would probably lead to bullying. No, if the other boy was about your size and
seemed to have about your capabilities it was best to get up in his face and
fight him if necessary.

So I turned in my seat and gave him the eyes. We all knew how to do fifty shades of
gathering storm with our eyes. And not
like Steven Seagal either, with all of that ridiculous brow knitting. All eyes.
The look that I gave him was somewhere between “you’re on my radar” and “are
you sure that you want to do this?”

“I’ve been working since seven this morning, and the breeze
feels good,” I said, “I doubt if I’m closing this window.” Then I just turned my back on him, like the
matter was settled. And it was, too. The window stayed open and the rest of the
ride was quiet.

This particular young man was white, like me. I could read him like a book, I knew him even
though we had never seen each other before.
Recalling this incident recently, I wondered what difference it would
have made if the young man had been black.
Same size and age as me, also not particularly tough or athletic, but
black. I had to admit that it would have
made a big difference. I would still
have given him the eyes, that much was habitual, but I don’t think that I would
have said anything. I think that I would
have simply closed the window and moved to another spot on the still almost
empty bus. The question becomes: would I have been acting out of fear?

Honestly, I don’t think so.
It would have been uncertainty, not fear. Fear would be too strong a word. I just didn’t know enough about black people
to be able to read them with any confidence.
I was ignorant on the subject. It
occurs to me that in some people this uncertainty may turn into fear, but
somehow I got lucky. All it made me was
curious.

Up until the age of fifteen I don’t think that I had ever
interacted with a black person, maybe a few clerks in stores, that’s it. Black singers and baseball players? That’s another story. But no interaction. After that I had black school chums, black
friends in the Navy (which pissed the white people off! Go figure!), and I had worked with black men,
but still, what did I really know about them?
About their lives? On what would
I base predictions about black behavior?
The ice was forming, but it was still too thin to trust by walking
around on it. My understanding of black
people was woefully inadequate. It probably
still is! "Probably" my ass! It still is! Even less then. Hence, that uncertainty that
would have occurred on the bus, if that young man had been black.

It’s important to consider these things. One of the more disagreeable aspects of our
shitty world is the myth that America has become some kind of “post-racial”
society. Only a charlatan trying to sell
a flush that included four hearts and a diamond could even say the words “post
racial” with a straight face. Maybe I
should write more on this subject. Maybe
it would be helpful, and you know how much I love to be helpful! Maybe.
It could happen.

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About Me

Mr. C is: a reformed lawyer; a religious atheist; a useful "Handy Man;" an amateur social scientist; a beloved teacher; a well liked husband and father; Ambassador Emeritus from, and to, Planet X; a freelance professor; taxi driver to the stars (Joe DiMaggio and Ronald McDonald, both out of uniform); an excellent fire fighter; an enthusiastic but untalented musician; an experienced counselor; a top-notch disk jockey; an all around get-along-guy; a cunning linguist; a would-be lifestyle victim; a Masonic wannabe; a frequent reader; Professor Irwin Corey's Ph.D. adviser; an accomplished driver and motorcyclist; a famous rockologist; a reliable but indifferent bullshit detective; a poor speller; a proud United States Navy veteran (honorably discharged, barely); the Ayatollah of Ass-o-Hola; a drug legend; a Returned Peace Corps volunteer (Thailand); a generally charming man; nationally and internationally known from coast to coast; a legend in his own mind; a cultural-anthropological critic-at-large; an avenging angel who coolly bides his time; Soul Brother number 37; and a friend to the poor.